


Fatum

by JynErsoinNYC



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1977, Amortentia is involved, Comedy, Dark Magic, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hogwarts, Horcruxes, Light Swearing, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), QUIDDITCH!, RAB - Freeform, Sad Ending, Violence, all your favourite Hogwarts classes, and I love the idea of Sirius commentating the Quidditch games so..., half-blood prince vibes, sexual tension cause why not, so this will actually get very dark, where is our Marauder's movie JK??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JynErsoinNYC/pseuds/JynErsoinNYC
Summary: Reg had stood there for some time, staring at that door. Perhaps he had been waiting to see if his brother would come back, holding onto some hollow hope that Sirius had always been loyal to House Black, despite his place in Gryffindor, despite his reluctance to accept any of their family’s beliefs or traditions.No.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. A (trouble-free) Journey to Hogwarts

Regulus Arcturus Black turned his nose up at the sight of his older brother, disgrace to their family name, pushing over a row of trunks sitting on Platform 9¾. Potter was standing back, having a fit of silent laughter as the luggage toppled and knocked over a stack of animal carriers and owl cages, releasing their occupants.

Chaos ensued.

Reg was glad their parents weren’t there to witness it.

Yelling filled the air as students scrambled to catch their pets. A loud scream was issued from a first-year as a long snake slithered past. The conductor huffed and puffed his way down the platform to assess the situation, and the two boys fled onto the train, howling with laughter. Reg thoroughly rolled his eyes, moving to help with the mess.

Sirius hadn’t noticed his younger brother on the platform, and Reg hadn’t been inclined to go over and say hello. Not after this Summer. Not ever again, if he could help it.

Reg righted the last trunk and boarded The Hogwarts Express. It was filling up with students clambering to find compartments. He vaguely recognized most of them, though he couldn’t have stated their names if he wanted to. Five years at Hogwarts, and Reg only really associated with his Slytherin housemates. Everyone else was just Ravenclaw boy, Hufflepuff do-gooder, Gryffindor girl to beat in Potions…

The carriage at the end of the train was full of Slytherins, and Reg took a seat beside Wilkes, placing his briefcase on the overhead luggage rack. Snape and Avery were sitting opposite them, their faces etched in their usual frowns.

Reg didn’t consider the Gang of Slytherins to be particularly pleasant individuals, but they held the same core ideals as the Black family, so they were as good acquaintances as any. They were now going into their seventh year at Hogwarts, making Reg the youngest, heading into his sixth.

They exchanged brief greetings and Snape was as cold towards him as ever. It was common knowledge that Snape and Sirius were sworn enemies, and Reg had always felt like some of Snape’s contempt was reserved for him.

“Is it true, then?” Avery asked him. “Did your traitor brother run away?”

“Not far enough,” Reg replied tonelessly.

The boys smirked.

“He looked like a fucking Mudblood in those clothes,” Wilkes said viciously.

Sirius had been wearing strange clothes on the platform. Things their parents would have burned if they had discovered them in their home. Tattered jeans, faded hooded sweatshirt, beat-up sneakers. Potter’s donations, most likely, for despite his Pure-blood heritage, James Potter had a certain penchant for Muggle things.

Still, in the weeks following Sirius’ leaving, it had infuriated Reg that his brother had traded one Pure-blood family for another.

“Bit emotional, are we Black?” Snape caught on to his thoughts, his voice as slimy as congealed Polyjuice Potion.

Reg didn’t reply. He wasn’t. At least, not anymore. But he would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t been angry, and, perhaps, hurt, after Sirius had left.

The shrill whistle signalling their departure sounded and the train rattled away from King’s Cross Station. Reg stared blankly out the window for a time – the scenery a blur of greens and golds – thinking back to the day Sirius had left. It had been raining in London, the sky swathed in heavy, dark clouds. Reg had descended the staircase from his bedroom after hearing another fight heating up below.

Their mother, Walburga, screaming, _“First Gryffindor, now these Half-bloods you consort with…disgrace to the House of Black…”_

Sirius shouting back at her, _“Your Pure-blood mania…I’m done with it…”_

Reg had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, flinching as something shattered inside the parlour. The door banged open and Sirius strode out with a vengeance, not acknowledging his brother as he furiously climbed the stairs to his room.

Reg barely had time to process the wild fury in his brother’s eyes, or move to the parlour to check on their now-silent mother, when Sirius thundered back down the stairs – trunk and wand in hand – and flung open the front door. But he halted, briefly glancing back at Reg, his long hair falling across his face.

“Are you coming?” Sirius had asked him, already knowing the answer.

Reg had stared at him, stunned, unable to say it.

Their mother appeared in the parlour doorway, her usually perfectly coiled hair lopsided, arms crossed, glaring expectantly at Sirius. But that had been the last time, apparently. 

Sirius drew to his full height and spat out, “I’m leaving this hellhole, and I’m not coming back.”

Their mother’s dark eyes alighted with fresh fury, and she screamed, “You are hereby disowned, disinherited, banished from this house! You are a blood traitor!”

Sirius left without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.

Reg had stood there for some time, staring at that door. Perhaps he had been waiting to see if his brother would come back, holding onto some hollow hope that Sirius had always been loyal to House Black, despite his place in Gryffindor, despite his reluctance to accept any of their family’s beliefs or traditions.

No.

Reg had eventually gone back up to his room and shut the door.

Now, Rosier and Mulciber joined them and the Gang began a quiet conversation about the war.

“The Death Eaters are recruiting,” Mulciber murmured. “And I’m joining them.”

Reg’s attention was regained. He sat up straight. “The Dark Lord’s recruiting children?”

Mulciber shot him a glare, not appreciating being inadvertently called a child. “If he knows they’re loyal, which I am. My whole family are Death Eaters.”

The other boys congratulated him. Avery looked positively green with envy, and Reg could relate. It was his greatest ambition to join the Death Eaters and dissociate the wizarding world of Muggle-borns. He held them in great disdain, like his mother and father. He found Half-bloods were tolerable, but couldn’t deny he considered their blood tainted.

Not like his blood.

And it was only logical that pure wizarding families like his should dominate the wizarding world again. But for now, for Hogwarts, Reg kept his opinions at bay. Not like Wilkes, who actively went out of his way to torment the Muggle-born students. Or Rosier, who refused to speak to them. Or Avery, who quietly jinxed them in the corridors.

But Snape…Reg occasionally saw Snape’s animosity towards Muggle-borns falter. This happened in the presence of his late best friend, Lily Evans. Reg continued to wonder why. What made Muggle-born Lily Evans give Severus Snape pause?

Speaking of Evans, the new Head Girl now appeared in the doorway of their carriage to a chorus of taunts and hisses. She rolled her green eyes at them all and said, “I want a trouble-free journey to school, so stuff a pumpkin pasty in your mouths and sit quietly.”

Snape didn’t appear to be breathing.

Evans turned and left, her long red hair the colour of autumn leaves. Reg had to admit, she was a force of nature.

Snape was quiet after that. He appeared to be listening to the others talk, but Reg didn’t think he was actually processing anything. His eyes seemed too glazed over, too distracted. That girl had him wrapped around her finger. Or at least, he had wrapped himself there. After their falling out last year, Reg doubted Evans would ever speak to Snape again.

Occasionally the face of a Prefect would appear in the window of the carriage door and assess the Slytherin’s within – as though just being a Slytherin was grounds for suspicion. Once, Potter’s own arrogant features appeared, twisted into his signature mocking smirk, and the reaction it received from most of the students in the carriage made the earlier jeering of the Head Girl seem like a heartfelt serenade.

Reg remained unamusedly blank throughout it all, unable to stop thinking about the past Summer, and Sirius. The memory of the afternoon played on repeat, with newly remembered details or bits of colour added each time, the unanswered questions growing in number.

_What if he’d gone downstairs earlier? What if he’d tried to stop Sirius leaving? What if he’d followed?_

But somehow he didn’t think anything he could have done would have made a difference. Once Sirius set his mind to something, there was no changing it. Besides, Reg hadn’t had what you would call a “good relationship” with his brother since Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor six years ago. Not that Reg had particularly cared about this, back then. Afterall, he’d only been ten years old.

It was their parents, Reg had come to realise. With that one development, Reg had taken Sirius’ place as the prized son, and Walburga had done everything she could do to foster the traits of a Slytherin in him. Though for a short time, and perhaps as some kind of rebellion – at least until their mother had found out – Sirius had adamantly tried to convince a very impressionable Reg that he too possessed bravery and chivalry and honesty, and was therefore meant to be sorted into Gryffindor. But a year later Reg had been placed in Slytherin, and Sirius gave up his attempts.

During his first year at Hogwarts, growing further apart from Sirius and closer to his Slytherin housemates, Reg had wondered whether his brother had lied to him. Had said he had the true makings of a Gryffindor just to manoeuvre against their parents. But those suspicions eventually faded away, and Reg had felt torn to admit that he found himself thinking he could have done well in Gryffindor too.

But then the war began to seep inside Hogwarts’ walls. More Muggle and Muggle-born killings in the nearby villages, less autonomy for students. Reg had met the Gang during those long, stuffy evenings in the Slytherin common-room, sat and studied with them, listened to their opinions on Muggle-borns and Pure-blood status, as well as their ambitions to become Death Eaters. And he realised that there _were_ others who held the same beliefs as the ones his parents had been forcing upon him (and Reg knew they had been forced upon him, he wasn’t an idiot). But these were people he could finally relate too, people who could fill the space Sirius had once occupied. So, Reg had just…succumbed.

Still, he hadn’t ever forgotten his brother’s efforts. Some part of him was even grateful. It told him that Sirius had cared, once. Had wanted to be a good brother (though he did reassess this on the occasion Sirius had found out that Reg wanted to become a Death Eater, maybe…a year ago. _That_ conversation had not been reassuring of brotherly concern. But at that point, Reg had placed Sirius, and all the history associated with him, to the side.).

A scuffle towards the front of the carriage caught his attention. The Gang stopped talking and glanced over their shoulders.

A second-year with white-blonde curls grasped at his own throat, eyes blown wide in panic. Loud, choking gasps escaped his parted lips. The freckly boy across from him, half-risen out of his seat, appeared to be in a state of shock. The tip of the wand in his hand was still glowing from the jinx.

As more students noticed, some pulled out their own wands to try and assist, while others just rolled around in laughter. At this point, the boy’s pale face had turned a striking shade of purple.

“Shame,” Avery commented idly.

Reg rolled his eyes. An unfortunately limited number of young students at Hogwarts were perceptive enough to realise that petty magic could have dire consequences, and that if you didn’t have a good understanding of what you were doing in the first place, it was almost impossible to reverse it.

He made to go and do this, but before he had even rise from his seat, the carriage door slid open and a girl entered, the Prefect badge on the lapel of her Gryffindor robes shining so brightly Reg thought it must be charmed.

For a moment, she looked startled. Then she surveyed the situation with quick efficiency and actually _shoved_ a fourth-year out of her way so she could continue down the aisle. The boy was clawing at his neck now, and even the roots of his silvery hair seemed tinged with purple.

“I –” stammered the freckly culprit, when the Prefect demanded an explanation.

She looked familiar, come to think of it, and Reg eventually placed her as the girl who had beaten him in Potions last year. And the year before that. Clarke? O’Connor?

“Collins!” Wilkes shouted over the din.

Ah. Collins.

She whipped her head towards them, but didn’t respond when she saw who it was.

“Fancy a haircut?” Wilkes asked loudly. He viciously mimed a slicing motion with his wand, which did have an unusually sharp tip.

Collins’ shoulders stiffened just perceptibly. With her hair pulled back, Reg hadn’t remembered how long she kept it. Now, he could spy the end of her thick braid hanging past her hip.

Turning back to the boy, Collins pulled her wand from the sleeve of her robe and muttered a spell. He immediately slumped back against his seat, dragging in great lungful’s of air as the colour slowly drained from his face.

In the following quiet, Collins managed to glare at every single Slytherin in the carriage, including Reg, before she turned around with a shake of her head and left. Chatter resumed as the door clicked shut.

Reg barely contained a vocal representation of his incredulity when the pale-haired boy shrugged off the whole situation and grinned, going for his own wand.

Perhaps the other houses had a point: Slytherins were extraordinarily skilled at misbehaving.


	2. Arya Jane Collins

Even the sight of sticky toffee pudding couldn’t lure Arya Jane Collins out of her solemn mood.

The dessert sat right in front of her, oozing hot caramel sauce, accompanied by a jug of whipped cream. It was her favourite, but she couldn’t bring herself to pick up her spoon. She watched glumly as the Gryffindors around her scooped generous helpings onto their plates until she was staring at the empty dish.

Illuminated by its hundreds of enchanted candles, the Great Hall was rowdy with chatter. Even the teachers were talking heartedly. And was that Professor McGonagall… _smiling?_ Arya felt like she was the only person in the room not enjoying herself, despite the news everyone had just received only half an hour ago; another Muggle-born attack in Hogsmeade last week.

Professor Dumbledore had kept his speech short, pausing only once to give weight to said news. To be honest, Arya thought the headmaster should have kept this information to himself. She had sat silently among the rest of the students (inwardly cringing at the sight of the newly sorted first years’ terrified expressions), feeling like a target was being painted on her back, or a banner unravelling above her head that read MUGGLE-BORN – COME AND GET ME! At one point she had peeked over her shoulder to the Slytherin table, just to make sure none of the Gang were watching her.

Thankfully, most of them didn’t even appear to be listening. The ever-charming Wilkes was balancing his dinner knife on one finger. Snape – the git – was staring across the room at Lily Evans, uninterestingly enough. And Black was just gazing into his water goblet like it contained a great mystery.

Arya was fairly certain no other student at Hogwarts knew she was Muggle-born. She had never asked anyone about their magical heritage, so they hadn’t bothered to ask her. She didn’t have any friends close enough to confide in, either. Most days it just didn’t seem to matter, but Arya felt this new year was shaping up to be different. Now, it was her biggest secret.

Thank god she had a talent for magic, Arya was shameless enough to admit. It kept anyone from looking too closely. She was also a Gryffindor Prefect, which did wonders for her reputation as a boring overachiever. When she had been selected by Dumbledore at the beginning of her fifth year, it had been like adding another buffer to friendships and intimate conversations. It had seemed to Arya that students just actively tried to avoid any and all law enforcement. That was until she had been informed by Professor McGonagall – _Professor McGonagall_ – that she was probably taking her duties as Prefect a little too seriously.

_“We’re here to inspire the students to adopt acceptable behaviours, Miss Collins, not round them up like sheep and herd them into detention.”_

Point taken, perhaps. At one stage last year, Arya had given out so many detentions that several teachers had approached her in their investigation of why the Great Hall had been so empty at dinner. These were mostly Slytherins, and a number of over-enthusiastic Gryffindors. Sirius Black knew how to push her buttons, that was for sure. So did Potter. But it wasn’t like she could give him detention anymore. Somehow, he was now Head Boy.

Notorious for his elaborate pranks, when James had entered the Prefect compartment on the Hogwarts Express only hours ago – the Head Boy badge winking on his robes (not as shiny as her Prefect badge) – Arya hadn’t even lifted a brow.

“Not your best work, Potter.”

“Why’s that, Collins?” James had grinned at her. “A bit too real for you?”

Then Lily Evans had entered the compartment, anger, denial, and reluctant acceptance all rolled into one bitter expression. And Arya had known.

James Potter.

Head Boy.

_What the fuck?_

Arya rarely cursed (her parents had always disapproved), but desperate times called for desperate responses. She had sat through the Prefects briefing – given by one enthusiastic Head Boy and one less enthusiastic Head Girl – thinking that Dumbledore must have been drinking some strange tea while making that decision. Maybe sucked on one too many Acid Pops.

But alas, James Potter, King of Arrogance, Master of Trouble, Associated with the God of Mischief Himself, was calling the shots.

Arya took a miserable sip of pumpkin juice, peered down the Gryffindor table, watched Sirius toss an iced donut at James’ head, rolled her eyes. The noise around her quieted as Dumbledore took the podium again, Professor McGonagall standing nearby.

“Professor McGonagall would like to say a few last words before we retire to our warm beds.”

McGonagall took Dumbledore’s place and examined the Great Hall with a stern eye. “I am to inform you all about the nature of Hogsmeade visits this year. Previously, these trips have been a monthly privilege for students third year and above, but in light of current events the school board has decided to restrict these visits to fifth year students and above, from ten in the mornings to three in the evenings.”

A spectacularly predictable chorus of complaints arose from everyone around Arya. She drained the last of her pumpkin juice.

McGonagall was unfazed. “Extra security will be stationed in Hogsmeade on these days, and anyone who violates these conditions will face serious consequences.”

“But fear not, young ones,” Dumbledore added as McGonagall stepped down. “There will be extracurricular activities available to you on these days as well, on school grounds of course, including – a little bird told me – edifying lectures by Professor Sprout on the remarkable properties of rare, magical flora.”

There was a loud snort of laughter quickly disguised by a hacking cough. Down the table, James was patting Sirius on the back for good measure.

Dumbledore stared down at them, the twinkle in his spectacled eyes visible from where she sat, and Arya was once again maddened at how the boys' antics continuously went ignored.

“Alright, off to bed. Pip-pip.”

Arya let herself be carried along by the mass of students flooding out into the Entrance Hall, grateful she was not in charge of directing the first years again. As she reached the door, she collided with someone.

Regulus Black scowled down at her like she was a stain on the floor.

Arya didn’t think this was particularly fair, so she glared up at him like he wasn’t much better. _Wizards_ , she was in a bad mood tonight.

Neither of them deigning to apologize, the younger Black stalked off, the crowd seeming to part for him, while Arya was jostled the rest of the way to the common room.

///

The Gryffindor common room was already a mess. A vinyl was spinning, its volume nearing deafening. Students were shouting and laughing, tossing sweets at each other.

“Pick that up,” Arya instructed a second year who threw a cushion across the room.

The second year slunk over to retrieve the cushion.

Arya felt like maybe she should stay down in the common room and monitor the situation, but she knew that by regular standards there wasn’t really a situation to be monitored. It was just a bunch of kids making the most of their last night of the holiday.

And it wasn’t really her scene.

“Care to join us, Collins?”

Arya turned on the spot. Sirius Black was lounging on the sofa in front of the fireplace, legs kicked up, head nestled in a cushion propped on James’ lap. Remus Lupin sat on the rug, resting his back against the couch, looking half-asleep like usual. The other one – Peter – was flicking through a Muggle comic book.

“No.”

_Quite the opposite, really_ , she thought as she took the stairs to her dormitory. Arya knew they were messing with her. They messed with anything that drew breath, and, occasionally, things that didn’t breathe. Peeves, for example. While Arya highly disapproved of Dumbledore tolerating the poltergeist, it did seem to share her contempt for Potter and his three stooges: The ghost was outdone at least once a week by the four boys.

Just how they managed to sneak around under Filch’s (and Arya’s) noses without being caught continued to baffle her.

No. Arya would not care to join them.

Besides, she had classes to begin prepping for. This year she was taking all the core subjects, plus Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes. Unfortunately, there had been “ _insufficient demand for Alchemy_ ”, which Arya translated as insufficient brains. She would just have to insist on private tutorials.

When she entered the sixth year girls’ dormitory, Scarlet, Jodie and Hilde were chatting as they unpacked their trunks. The curtains around what was presumably Lixue’s bed were already closed. She had in fact looked rather tired at the feast.

Lixue was the only student at Hogwarts who did not live in the United Kingdom, and she had probably just spent the last two days travelling from China on account of the fact that international Portkeys inbound-to and outbound-of the United Kingdom were currently banned.

“Good holiday, Arya?” Jodie asked.

“Average,” Arya reported. “You?”

Jodie shrugged. “Stellar. Though it could’ve been better considering we spent all of it in hiding.”

Arya wasn’t very good at sympathy, so she settled for a solemn nod. She knew that Jodie was also Muggle-born. That her other, graduated and well-known siblings were as well. That they were prime targets for the Death Eaters to push their agenda.

The three girls turned back to their conversation. They were always nice to Arya, but they were a tight-knit unit, the three pieces of a completed puzzle. Lixue was more like Arya, but her friends were Ravenclaws.

Arya changed into her nightdress and brushed her curly hair. It wasn’t anything special (unlike Lily Evans’ hair – _wizards_ , Arya was envious) which was why she kept it long. Maybe to try and compensate. Okay, definitely to try and compensate.

In the photograph of her family on the nightstand, Arya’s hair was shorter. A lighter brown. Nine, she’d been. Her mother and father were smiling beside her, and Arya’s adopted, older sister had an arm around her own girlfriend. Arya remembered the day her older sister had found out she was magical. How their parents had had to assure the neighbours that “ _no, Romy has not gone round the twist”._ Thrilled seemed too mild a description. Ecstatic, maybe. Rapturous.

Arya sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the photograph. Gosh, she missed Romy. If only the Hogwarts owls flew internationally, so they could talk to each other more often. She only got to see Romy on the holidays – the rest of the year she lived in Japan with Hiroto – and the Muggle mail their parents mediated just took too long.

Half-listening to Scarlet gossiping about a Muggle boy back in Dorset, Arya arranged all her school textbooks on her shelf and read through her prepared notes, the words illuminated in the darkness of her four-poster by a soft _Lumos!_ charm. But the burner in the middle of the dorm was warm and the patter of rain against the tower windows was calming, and Arya was asleep before the Hogwarts clock chimed nine.

///

At breakfast the next morning Arya noticed that Lily Evans was sitting closer to James Potter than usual (the usual being the opposite end of the Gryffindor table). Today, she was huddled with Marlene and Mary several seats away, giggling about something, while James sat with his chest puffed out like some ridiculous bird performing a mating ritual.

Arya sat down somewhere in the space between them, brand new timetable in one hand, attempting to butter her toast with her other. Sirius was making bits of cereal float around Peter’s head, while the other boy tried to catch them in his mouth.

_Honestly_. It was the kind of magic parents used to feed their fussy toddlers.

Then again…

Sirius let the cereal rain down on Peter, turned to James and whispered something in his ear. James punched him in the shoulder and glanced nervously at Lily.

Arya rolled her eyes. It wasn’t a secret that James Potter fancied Lily Evans, and vice versa. Arya suspected it was closer to love, at least on James’ part. Lily was harder to read. Frustrated adoration, perhaps. In any case, they both liked each other, despite getting on terribly. They clashed like spots and stripes at the best of times, and everyone in the school (even some of the teachers, Arya suspected) were waiting for the day the two of them would just…click. And even Arya, not particularly invested in that kind of drama, had to admit they’d been dragging it out for a long while now. Four years.

“Can I help you, Collins?”

Arya blinked. She had been unconsciously staring at James. “Jam, please.”

He passed her the jam jar with a quizzical eye.

Arya went back to perusing her timetable. It was full to the corners. She had almost considered asking Professor McGonagall for a time-turner to help her out, but Professor Binns had offered to spend Thursday evenings teaching her Ancient Runes, so thankfully she wouldn’t need to deal with time-travel on top of everything else.

Today was Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, lunch break (aka library study session), then Double Potions and Care of Magical Creatures in the afternoon. Apparently there had been such mixed results in their O.W.L.s last year, that classes were now a random collection of sixth-years from all four houses.

There was an echoing screech. Everybody looked up to the ceiling, which was currently enchanted to match the grey day outside. The post had begun to arrive. Numerous owls soared down into the Great Hall through the skylight window, bearing letters and newspapers and packages. Arya caught hold of a Daily Prophet before it landed in a tureen of porridge.

She made to unroll it when she heard Peter Pettigrew shout from a few seats away.

“James! Look!”

Everybody looked back up, and there was James’ pet owl, with the assistance of three others, swooping down with a long box hefted between them. They dropped it overhead and it fell like a rock. Too close for comfort, Arya braced her plate and goblet, but the four boys scrambled up and managed to catch it out of the air.

“James…” Sirius said softly, gazing at the package.

James looked around at their faces, over to Lily, back to the package. Everyone at breakfast was also watching, eager to glimpse what the Head Boy had been sent.

It appeared James already had an idea.

So did Sirius. “Dude, you have to let me ride it!”

“Me first!” Peter demanded.

Looking a bit awestruck, James preceded to mutter something: Phrases Arya assumed were the make and model of a racing broom, for it contained words like “first edition” and “flight axis”. Probably a present from his wealthy family, a congratulations for making Quidditch team captain, _again_. Though even Arya had to admit he was a good Seeker. And Chaser.

“Let’s go now,” Sirius said, rising from the table. Peter nodded eagerly.

“Class starts in fifteen minutes, guys,” Remus reminded them, his voice hoarser than usual.

Arya had to agree, but then told herself she wasn’t part of this conversation.

“So?” Sirius countered. He was staring greedily at the package. “The pitch is only five minutes away. If we run.”

James looked torn. He gazed at the box, to Sirius, to Remus – who was staring back with a stern brow raised – and finally to Lily. Then he said, “At lunch time, guys.”

Arya blinked. Okay.

A few seats away, the Head Girl also looked surprised, but her emerald eyes betrayed her approval.

Realising James wasn’t going to open the package, everybody went back to their breakfast, and Arya returned to unrolling her newspaper. She scanned the headlines. As expected, it was plastered with updates of the war: Sightings of Death Eaters, the suspected movements of He Who Must Not Be Named. There was even a casualties poll in the top corner, and Arya felt her stomach knot as the number magically increased.

To have this news delivered to a _school_. It was outrageous. Arya debated going around the tables and confiscating all the copies.

And then, behind her, she heard a Ravenclaw girl sniffling. Arya turned to investigate, and indeed spotted an identical copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in the girl’s trembling hands. She looked only twelve.

Arya didn’t finish her second piece of toast. She went and took the paper from the girl and led her to the nearest bathroom. She couldn’t muster any encouraging words, so she just waited while the girl composed herself.

“Sorry,” she whispered finally, sounding utterly ashamed.

Arya frowned. “What are you sorry for?”

The girl’s shoulders racked with another sob. She stared up at Arya, perhaps to garner whether she was trustworthy. Arya felt slightly affronted when she shook her head.

“…Nothing.”

The girl left the bathroom, but Arya waited there until the clock chimed nine.

**Author's Note:**

> When you have ten different fanfics in the works, it's hard to settle on just one. But I've been wanting to tell this story for a while now. 
> 
> The title is Latin. 
> 
> Disclaimer: updates will be arbitrary, just like my life :)


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